Anything one man can imagine, other men can make real
by jomiddlemarch
Summary: She had expected him to leave when she told him Félicie was not yet home. And then he had said, "I'm not here to see her, mademoiselle, s'il vous plait." Title from Jules Verne's Around The World In Eighty Days.


The package Victor placed in her lap was unwieldy and hard, wrapped in brown paper and burlap, secured by an enormous quantity of twine. Odette thought that if her life had depended upon it, she would not have been able to reveal the contents in under a quarter of an hour and only with a stout knife. Victor had paused a moment to let her survey the mystery of the object, then murmured, "If I may, mademoiselle Odette?" and set to untying knots and shimmying the length of the prickly rope off the gift, peeling back this corner and that to make the final steps a matter of a few seconds' work.

She surveyed what was in her lap and worked to keep her voice, even, curious, sensitive to the artist's wish to be understood without the need of explanation, of an orphan's yearning to be known and praised as those with fond mothers, doting grandmothers, even the stern father whose nod was all in all.

"Victor, what is it?"

"It's a brace for your bad leg. Félicie told me to get my head out of the clouds, so I did," he said. He paused, as if there was nothing else that needed to be said.

"But how? I've never seen anything like this," she replied. She said it well enough that he beamed and did not frown. She rather thought him handsomer, more the remote Romantic genius when he furrowed his brow and his eyes darkened like the twilight that fell in the autumn, but she was happy to see his grin.

"It's mechanized, there are gears and belts. I made Félicie show me how she walks and show she sweeps, and I have been observing you, mademoiselle, when you invite me to dinner," Victor said. The device was a mix of leather and metal, a bronze color that could have been any alloy, polished to a fine sheen. He said there were gears but she could not see them and the rivets were as tiny as a seamstress's stitching. She was sure there was no other object like it in creation.

"There are gears? How did you make it?" she asked. She had not thought he could smile any brighter but she'd been wrong.

"Oh, there they are," he said, leaning over and turning the brace over, pointing at what looked like the most infinitesimal clockwork. Some late afternoon sun caught the metal and it glowed like beaten gold. "I have been studying, going to the museums and I've made a friend, you might say, of one of the guards at a library of the Sorbonne. And, like I said, Félicie helped. She even danced for me—I'm not sure the brace will work well enough for it, but she wanted me to try, to make it so you could do all the jumps you used to. It should be strong enough to bear the weight if you go en pointe, I know that for certain," Victor finished. He finally sounded shy as he usually did when he arrived for the simple dinner she offered to share with him, offering a few fresh rolls or a handful of dewy violets in a twist of paper. He had made her the greatest gift, a chance to move as she had once before, and he was afraid she would not like it, would scold him or turn him away.

"Victor, I have never been given such a gift. Such a perfect, thoughtful gift- something I could never have let myself hope for," she said seriously. He blushed, at her tone more than the words, and ducked his head. She was glad, for both of them, that they were alone, that Félicie was not watching them and making either of them conceal what they felt. She felt like a girl again and she saw he felt, for once entire and complete, like a man grown.

"Shall you help me put it on then? I'd like to try it," she said.

"Now?" he blurted.

"Why would I wait? If I told you you might fly, would you wait even a second?" she answered, lifting her skirt to reveal her twisted, shortened leg in its woolen stocking. It would be enough to walk without the stick, even if she could not dance again the way he hoped, but perhaps, perhaps…

Neither of them heard Louis knock when he came to the door or when Félicie came charging after her ballet master, both of them ending up in the courtyard, regarding a scene they'd never known could be. Louis had nearly exclaimed when he saw Odette's stick leaning against the bench she preferred, under the leafy horse-chestnut, but the sight had stopped him; Odette walking lightly, her arms outstretched as if she might suddenly begin a pas de chat. Victor was beyond the reach of her hand, encouraging her, "Keep going, Mademoiselle! More, lift your foot higher, you can do it!" and Odette smiled. Oh , how she smiled!

Félicie had cried out when she saw them, "Victor! Bon Dieu, what are you doing?" making them pause across the shady garden. Louis thought he had never seen Odette look so young, that he was seeing Mathilde for once, even if her hair was not in two tails down her back. Her cheeks were red and her eyes shone like the star sapphires in the ring he had for her. Félicie had clapped a hand to her mouth and her eyes flicked between her foster-mother and the boy she had loved first of anyone, seeing two people she had never met before.

"I'm dancing," Odette called softly, spinning on her foot, a delicate pirouette ending in the attitude of a nymph, with the confidence of a goddess. Félicie had laughed but Louis only held his breath, tightened his fists and waited. For her to come to him and for her hand to take his first. For her eyes to meet his in a joy unparalleled.


End file.
